The Blog

Donna Simpson: Football, Murder and Roses

2012-02-22T16:39:42Z

As I mentioned in a previous blog, I worked at a group home for mentally disabled adults. A few of the patients were violent at times and I had to restrain them on occasion. I was pregnant with Devin at that time and one day a patient threatened to kick me in the belly and kill my baby. I was so frightened that I quit the next day and started looking for another job. I found work at a mortgage company called Marketing Home Finance and that is where I met Lilius Landrum. Lilius and I became very close and we confided in each other about everything. She had just moved back to Akron from Los Angeles to help take care of a family member. While she was on the west coast, she worked on the TV shows Give Me a Break and Family Matters. She was the double for actress Thelma Hopkins, the resemblance was uncanny.   

Lilius would spend her lunch time singing to my belly. She was in love with Devin even before he was born. We were always together; I picked her up every morning and took her home after work. Lilius was a very classy lady, always smartly dressed, well-spoken and had a quality that made her seem regal. What I really loved about her was that she came from money, but was never condescending or arrogant. She was humble and chose to live in a poor neighborhood, much different from the one she grew up in. She would volunteer at soup kitchens and was always looking to help those who were less fortunate.   

Lilius started seeing a younger man named Tony. He was "born again" and wanted to be a Minister. Lilius encouraged Tony to follow his dream, but realized that she would not be around to see him fulfill his goal. She had premonitions and had one about her own death. She had told me that she was breaking it off with Tony and was moving back to her mom's house where she would die. She didn't know how it would happen, but she said she didn't have much time left and wanted to be with her family when it happened. She also told me that I would write an article about her in the newspaper after she was gone.  About a month later, I was at home watching TV and the news was showing footage of the old apartment where Lilius had lived. I turned up the volume to hear what they were saying; it was something about a murder. The news anchor was telling the story of a gruesome act of violence. It started when neighbors had complained to the landlord about a mysterious odor. He alerted the police and detectives were sent to investigate. They found a very disturbing scene at the apartment of Lilius Landrum. Her place was practically empty except for the bags she had packed and placed at the front door. Inside they found a bloody torso; someone had decapitated Lilius and placed her head in a bucket that was hidden in the basement. Police said this was the worst crime scene in Akron's history. As it turned out, I helped to write an article about her for the Akron Beacon Journal. I miss Lilius.

Most people in Ohio love their football, and I had grown up not too far from Cleveland. It seemed that my life would be forever influenced by whether or not the Browns won on Sunday. If the team lost (which was most Sundays) I would have to hide from most of my family and friends until Wednesday or Thursday. Cleveland and surrounding areas were not fun places after a loss. In 1995 I thought I had caught a break. After a promising Super Bowl run was ruined, Art Modell the owner of the Browns announced that he was moving the team to Baltimore. I figured if there was no football team here, nobody would get angry after the inevitable losses. Boy was I wrong. Everyone in town was pissed off and some were wearing these T-shirts that said, "Muck Fodell." A law suit ensued and after the case went to court, a compromise was reached where The Cleveland Browns would become the Baltimore Ravens and the Browns would be resurrected in Cleveland three years later. That was not the end of my connection to the team.  

Jacqueline just turned five on February 13th and we had a great time celebrating at Chuck E Cheese's. Devin's birthday was two weeks ago and we celebrated him turning sixteen playing laser tag. I never talk much about Devin's half-brother, Shawn. When I met Devin and Shawn's dad, Robert Simpson, Shawn's mother was in a coma. She died when Shawn was just five years old and I raised him as my own. Shawn had another step-brother from his mom's previous marriage, Jacinth Baker.   

I guess most people have heard the story of Jacinth's murder during a Super Bowl party in Atlanta. Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis was arrested on murder charges of Jacinth and his friend Richard Lollar. Ray wound up pleading guilty to obstruction of justice. It seems that the Browns were still causing me pain even though they were relocated to Baltimore.

Death also came to a longtime friend that I had a huge crush on. His name was Richard and he stuttered. Richard was so handsome; I even thought his stuttering was sexy. He knew that I thought it was sexy, so he was relaxed around me and didn't stutter much when we were together. We finally grew apart after a while and lost touch when I got married and had kids. I had often wondered what became of Richard and eventually I got some bad news. About a year before Lilius died, Richard had taken his own life. It was really weird the way it happened. He fell asleep on the floor of his garage with the car on and the door shut. His mom came home and she couldn't open the garage door because Richard had programmed the opener so only he could use it. She didn't have keys to the house; she could only enter through the garage. She gave up trying to open the garage and spent the night at her other son's house. The next day she managed to climb through a window and get into her house. Nobody had heard from Richard's mom after that. Her co-workers came to her house when she didn't show up at work for two days. The front door was open and they found Richard's mom dead on the couch. The story was that she fell asleep on the couch not knowing that the room was filled with carbon dioxide. She had died in her sleep.

  I attended a double funeral with Richard in a closed casket and his mom right next to him in an open one. Emotions ran very high that day, there was much sadness at losing the two of them at one time and plenty of resentment by family members toward Richard for inadvertently killing his mother. I approached Richard's casket and said to him, "Richard, don't hesitate to visit me." Richard did visit me... until Lilius died.  

When I left that day, I kept smelling roses. I figured it was from the funeral home until later when I was giving Devin a bath again I smelled roses. I noticed that the smell of roses would come and go all the time. I would be at work or at a friend's house and the room would be filled with the smell of roses. I began to realize that it was Richard that brought that scent of roses. Every time I would say, "Richard, come visit us, and just like that... everything smelled like beautiful roses. I would tell people about it and they wouldn't believe it until they smelled it with their own noses. Lilius really loved it; she would talk to Richard often.

Emma, The Emma Edition: An Underworld Below Your Subway Seat

2012-02-22T13:09:45Z

Would you believe me if I told you that there are hundreds of people living below New York City? The idea of mole people is often depicted as mythical in pop culture (even comical at times, with characters like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stationed below the city) but they are a people as far from fantasy as can be. Neither is this a new concept -- since the early 1990's, major exposure of the lives of homeless people making a world for themselves below the New York subway system has caught the attention of the public, but there have been records to show that people lived below the subways way before that. The early 1990's were just the pinnacle for subway-dwelling. In 1993, the country endured a financial recession, forcing many new people to the streets of New York. It was during this time that hundreds if not thousands of people cleverly made their homes beneath the subway. However, in 1996, when the Amtrak train line was built, most of these people were kicked out by the city and homeless organizations offered some of them alternative housing. Yet many of the so-called mole people living below the streets didn't associate themselves with the idea of homelessness. They had created a whole subculture for themselves below New York, both literally and figuratively. They had makeshift houses, neighbors, and even sustained families.

In 2000, a documentary called Dark Days, filmed by Mark Singer, was released. Mark is from London, but after moving to New York in the 1990's and seeing the degradation of our homeless population and meeting many who lived on the streets, he decided the make a film about it. The film was incredibly beautiful yet eerie, as it was filmed solely in black and white. Never before have I seen something which so genuinely humanizes our homeless population, depicting a real networked community.

Still today, many thrive below our subway system. On February 6, 2012, I read an article in the New York Times by Christine Haughney entitled "The Fiery End to a Life Lived Beneath the City," about a man named Anthony Horton who died in a fire in his underground home. His body was found deep in the subway station by the F Line, just north of 63rd and Lexington, which was shocking to me to think that he was just a mile from my own home. After his death, firefighters uncovered all of this art that Horton had been making during his lifetime. He was even the co-author of a novel called "Pitch Black," written about his experiences underground. The artwork in his graphic novel was so interesting and had such a Basquiat quality to them. In the novel, Horton gave advice like "Remember, anything you need can be found in the garbage" and "With all the juice down there, there should be electricity for everyone." This wasn't some illiterate substance abuser. Horton, like many of his underground mates, makes up a group of intelligent people who call the tracks home, a life without the judgment from those above ground.

In AP History this year, we learned all about the Gilded Age -- the huge disparity between the wealthy robber barons who owned the railroad companies and the poor people who actually built them that was apparent during the late 1800's. But I am certain that we are still very much in a Gilded Age when I think about the image of myself heading on the subway to some party and only few feet below me as I ride, hundreds of people struggling to simply survive. My family gives to organizations that help homeless people receive food, but, and I know this makes me sound incredibly snobby, when I actually encounter a homeless person on the street or on the subway, so often I turn away, unsure if their intentions are earnest. But recently, I have become obsessed with learning about the people below our city, and it's really hard for me now not to think about it when I ride the subway. To say we must all help this people isn't exactly an easy fix to the problem. Many of the subway's homeless population tried living above ground for a while with friends that they had made and found life below ground much easier. What I do think though is that the homeless population in our city is simply not represented enough if at all. Our city has so many abandoned subway stations that could be turned into legal and safe spaces for these people to live that I see no reason why they've stayed closed and out of use for so many years. I hope the next time you take the subway you'll think about what's going on below you.

Robert Rosenthal: Repulsive-Sounding Foods (That Are Delicious)

2012-02-21T22:05:59Z

The very idea of ingesting the liver of a calf or chewing voluntarily on a cow's tongue seems to be sufficient in itself to qualify "liver" and "tongue" as repulsive sounding foods to some. I vehemently disagree with the premise, for I relish not only those parts, but also take delight in eating a platter of grilled chicken hearts and a portion of well sauteed cow's pancreas. And there's the rub, so to speak. The names alone of certain foods negatively affect how we perceive them regardless of their actual deliciousness. That's why euphemisms come in handy. Doesn't the name "sweetbreads" suggest something wonderful and tasty? However, the second it's explained that you're dining on a large mammal's thymus gland, not so much.

Here are 12 other foods that seem like they could be a one-way ticket to uncontrollable vomiting.

Oxtail
Sounds like ass meat. Then again, so do pork butt and rump roast. Great foods all, but how many gourmands do you know who would admit that they like to eat butt?

Blood Sausage
Sausage alone, no problem. We'll eat it anytime, prepared any way, in almost any dish. But once the sausage name is preceded by blood, then most people would rather give it than eat it.

Mung Beans
Again, beans alone are fine. But mung is a tad too close to dung. And no one wants that in their salad.

Funghi
Speaking of dung, funghi is the all-purpose Italian designation for mushrooms. Who couldn't go for some sauteed porcini right now? But associating food with fungus is unlikely to engender widespread popularity.

Frogs' Legs
Total. Delicacy. Yet a classic case of the unwillingness to suck the meat off the fragile bones of a slimy swamp creature that jumps from lily pad to lily pad while yelling ribbit.

Snails
Or, as the French call them, escargot. See, doesn't that seem better tasting already? And they are truly scrumptious, especially drenched in garlic butter. Yet when some people hear snails, they instantly translate it as slugs, or worse yet, worms. In which case, no amount of garlic butter can help.

Tripe
Again, forget what it actually is. It sounds like it refers to penis, as in, "hey, nice tripe." For the record, it's not. It's the rubbery stomach lining of cattle. I've had it, and must say that I prefer it to eating penis any day.

Jerky
Most folks do go for the dried beef product. And many also enjoy jerk -- or jerked -- chicken. It's just that "jerking" is such a pervasive pastime that its association to something edible seems downright distasteful.

Shark Fin, Turtle and Cock-A-Leekie Soups
Shark fin doesn't make your mouth water? Turtle, not your cup of soup? But cock-a-leekie really takes the cake as the most disgusting sounding warm liquid to come in a bowl.

Guinea Fowl
Sorry to say, but any dish whose name resembles a nasty epithet you'd hear on Jersey Shore loses its taste appeal.

Head Cheese
Yeah, sure. And while you're at it... pass the toe jam, smegma breath.

Haggis
Other than being Scotland's national dish, I'm not entirely sure what it is. But the name haggis just doesn't seem like something you would eat; it sounds more like a disease that features a mucous-y, hacking cough. ("Poor lad, he's a got a horrible case of the haggis.") Wait, let me look it up.

OK, just back from Wikipedia and here's what Haggis is: "a kind of savoury pudding containing sheep's heart, liver and lungs, minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally encased in the animal's stomach and simmered for approximately three hours. " Holy shit. I'll take the disease.

What other foods can you think of that sound as if they're going to taste disgusting?

Dr. Franklin Ruehl, Ph.D.: A Trio of Intriguing Qs & As!

2012-02-21T17:58:13Z

Dr. Ruehl, can an ant survive being zapped in a microwave oven?

Most assuredly! Because most microwave ovens are characterized by so-called "hot spots," which are bombarded by microwaves, and "cold spots," which are free of them, an ant (or any other small insect) has a decent chance of surviving. This is tied into the problem of uneven heating due to "standing waves" formed when microwaves are reflected off of the oven's walls.

However, newer, more sophisticated models have minimized this problem, leading to more thorough cooking... and a reduced chance for the ant's survival within one!

Ruehl Fact: The fear of ants is termed "myrmecophobia."

Dr. Ruehl, are humans composed of stardust?

According to the "stardust hypothesis," the first generation of stars formed when the universe began with the "Big Bang" some 14 billion years ago. Within their broiling cores, heavier elements needed for human life, such as iron, were fashioned. As these stars died off, many as explosive supernovae, they yielded a reservoir of material in the form of titanic clouds of dust and gas from which succeeding generations of stars evolved, such as our own sun, with residual rings of material encircling them that ultimately coalesced into planets.

Hence, the planets, such as earth, should be composed of stardust. And accordingly, all life on such planets, including human beings, is hypothesized to be comprised of the essence of long dead stars!

While cosmological doctrine does hold that our sun evolved from gargantuan globules of cosmic dust and gas, there has been a debate as to whether those clouds were composed purely of stardust or of dust from rocky bodies, such as asteroids, that never were part of a star, or a combination of the two.

Intriguingly, astronomers have been analyzing interplanetary dust particles, or IDPs, which were retrieved from the earth's upper atmosphere by special NASA planes dubbed "High Altitude Dust Collectors." Incredibly, each IDP consists of approximately 100,000 individual minuscule grains, each only nanometers in diameter (billionths of a foot). Utilizing the new French NanoSIMs ion microprobe, astrochemists have thus far identified six grains that were definitely stardust originating from beyond our solar system.

Amazingly, they came from at least three different stars: a red giant; a metal-poor star; and a metal-rich star, perhaps a supernova. Overall, they determined that approximately 1% of interstellar dust is composed of actual stardust.

So it appears that we may owe a small part of our human condition to stardust, but not all of it. Obviously, further research is called for and is actually being conducted. For instance, the space probe Stardust, launched in February, 1999, has already collected several IDPs and has a rendezvous with the comet Wild 2 slated for January 2, 2004, where it will accumulate cometary particles, returning its cosmic sampling to earth after that time for a first-hand detailed analysis.

Ruehl Fact: In his book, "Vital Dust," Nobel Prize-winning chemist Christian De Duve argued that cosmic dust particles bearing organic compounds may have provided the basic building blocks for life on planets throughout the cosmic backdrop!

Dr. Ruehl, is there any way to recycle chicken droppings?

Incredibly, chicken dung may soon be utilized to clear up polluted water!

Researchers have recently created activated carbon pellets from fowl waste that have displayed a remarkable ability to absorb contaminant metals, such as copper, from water.

Use of chicken manure would combat two problems: the increasing cost of coal, which has provided the basis for activated carbon filters, and the disposal of chicken droppings which, up until now, have been of no commercial value.

Dr. Isabel Lima, research chemist at the Commodity Utilization Research Unit, Agricultural Research Service's Southern Regional Research Center in New Orleans, asserted, "It's turning poop to gold."

It should be stressed that the chicken pellets have been absolutely sanitized and would pose no danger whatsoever to the water they would be used to filter!

(However,my mother snarled: "I would sooner swallow a mouthful of arsenic than drink water that had been, ha, purified with chicken poop!")

Ruehl Fact: A group of chickens is a "peep."

Do living blobiforms exist on Saturn's moon Titan?

Can zeroidal life exist in free space?

Aric Davis: PHOTOS: A Life History Told Through Tattoos

2012-02-21T13:03:22Z

I knew that I was going to be tattooed long before I even thought about being a writer. I can remember the moment like it was yesterday, I was listening to "Girls Girls Girls" by Motley Crue with a friend in his room, and on the wall was a poster of the band. They were standing on stage, half naked, and covered in tattoos. Maybe I'll get tattoos like that someday, but by the time I was almost of age, which is 18 in most states, it wasn't just a thought. It was a definite. My interest in Motley Crue may have waned over the years, but I wanted some ink, and I wanted it now.

So I did the stupid thing, and got tattooed at a terrible studio when I was 17. It was unsafe to say the least, and I'm fortunate that nothing bad happened. Luckily, the tattoo was simple enough that it would have been difficult for anyone to foul up, and I didn't come down with any communicable disease. That said, if the tattooist smokes in the studio, you can definitely do better. My tattoo, the logo for my first band, was awesome and I couldn't wait to get more. Unfortunately at the time (and luckily in retrospect), I was broke, so more ink had to wait.

But it didn't have to wait long. Just over six months later, and a few weeks before my 18th birthday, I went from customer to body piercer in the blink of an eye. I was shopping for ear jewelry one afternoon, and literally talked a customer at a shop into letting me work on him in lieu of the piercer that was about to butcher his navel. A bold move, and not one I'd recommend, but I was hired on the spot.

I waited to get sleeved until I was 21 years old. My first below the shirtsleeve tattoo was done by Craig Driscoll, on my left elbow. It hurt like crazy. Craig was a jackhammer around, over, and what felt like at times underneath my funny bone. I can honestly say that was my first truly painful piece of artwork. The theme of that tattoo ended up deciding what the rest of my left forearm was to turn into, a cartoonish native warrior with a viney jungle-esque background. Though Mr. Driscoll started this theme, my friend Shawn Heath completed the majority of the work. With one arm almost totally covered, I decided that I was only 21, and could wait to get the other arm done. But that was not to be.

Like any professional industry, there is an upper echelon of tattoo artists, and my friendship with a young artist from Chicago, Jon Clue, lead to meeting a true icon of the industry, Guy Aitchison. I got lucky, and Guy's sometimes years-long waiting list was to be cracked by yours truly when he and his wife, the also very talented tattoo artist Michele Wortman, came to my studio to do a guest spot.

Guy tattooed the backside of my right forearm with an amazing work of subterranean rocks and light, the caves of another world, were one feeling particularly poetic. My now-wife had planned to be tattooed by Michele at the same time, but before the session started, my not-yet-wife and I decided to have our engagement rings tattooed on by the couple, a pair of infinity symbols, hers by Michele, mine by Guy.

Other memorable tattoos were still to come: a worm from the Dune books on my right forearm was my first literary tattoo, and it was inked at a stage in my life where I wasn't even thinking about writing, much less putting in the necessary hours with the ever demanding, ever blinking cursor.

Sentimental additions came easily; shortly after we were married I added my wife's name in a heart on my arm, and my daughter's first and middle names were placed across my wrists just after her third birthday.

On my left hand there is a book to symbolize a love of reading and a hope for writing, on my right a bird with a ribbon bearing my lucky number. Those two pieces were 10 years in the making, my wife insisting I wait until my thirtieth birthday to cover my hands. I had a patience she wasn't expecting, and either the book or the lucky number seems to have done the trick as far as writing goes. The back of my neck wears a wooden spoon crossed with a wooden hammer, an ode to my maternal grandparents with my mother's maiden name running through it. Most recently, I got the logo for my publisher tattooed on my right ring finger, another engagement of sorts--a celebration of my first book deal. A moment that any writer would agree is worth inking in history.

It was with these all too visible images in mind that I began to write my second novel, A Good and Useful Hurt [47North, $14.95]. Surely years of living and breathing this stuff would make creating a horror novel based on the denizens of a tattoo shop easy, welcome fodder. Instead I forced myself to relive half a lifetime of memories, people, situations, trauma, blood and ink. What was too private, what was too out there? When it came down to it, I picked the truth whenever possible. As it turned out, writing was more similar to getting tattooed than I ever would have imagined. It can itch, it can be painful, but the really good stuff lasts forever. At least for me, the best tattoos and the best writing all seem to hurt.

Christopher Elliott: Who's More Dangerous: Terrorists Or The TSA?

2012-02-21T12:45:00Z

For an agency that claims to have "zero tolerance" for criminal behavior, TSA agents sure spend a lot of time declaring their guilt.

I was reminded of that unfortunate fact a few days ago after a screener reportedly faced accusations of stealing $5,000 from a passenger's jacket as he was going through security at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The agent, Alexandra Schmid, hasn't confessed yet even though officials have it all on videotape. But a closer look at the TSA's rap sheet reveals that often, employees accused of crimes simply roll over and play dead when someone points a finger at them.

Take Coumar Persad and Davon Webb, accused of swiping $40,000 from a piece of luggage in January 2011. They were charged with grand larceny, obstructing governmental administration and official misconduct. Last month, they pleaded guilty and were sentenced to six months in jail and five years' probation.

Speaking of theft, how about the TSA supervisor and screener accused of taking between $10,000 and $30,000 from luggage at Newark Liberty International Airport. A federal judge sentenced the supervisor, Michael Arato, to 2 1/2 years in prison and his subordinate, Al Raimi, to six months of home confinement, after both pleaded guilty.

Or Randy Pepper, the TSA supervisor who worked at Seattle-Tacoma, an airport with what many passengers would argue has the worst TSA workforce in the country?

Pepper in 2010 confessed to removing money and jewelry from the luggage he was inspecting, including sterling silver necklaces, earrings, bracelets and rings. Few of the items were recovered; most were melted down for the gold or silver content, according to the Justice Department.

And it's not just theft.

How about drugs? Here's a doozy of a drug trafficking case that involves a conspiracy to distribute 100 kilograms or more of marijuana and money laundering.

It also involves Minnetta Walker, a Behavioral Detection Officer employed by the TSA. Walker assisted the bad guys in bypassing the normal security procedures, measures and requirements at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport, according to the FBI.

Oh yeah, that's according to him, too -- he pleaded guilty to conspiracy to defraud the United States and was sentenced to 24 months in prison last month.

Minneapolis TSA agent George Thompson pleaded guilty in federal court to assaulting an 83-year-old Somali man in 2010, a federal hate crime, according to the Department of Justice.

During the plea hearing, Thompson was said to have targeted the elderly man because he had a red beard, which caused him to believe that the victim was a Muslim and an African immigrant. During the assault, Thompson yelled that the victim should "go back to Africa." Thompson admitted that he assaulted the man solely because the victim was Muslim and Somali.

Child pornography, anyone? Andrew Cheever of Lowell, Mass., admitted to it in December. Specifically, he pleaded guilty to having thousands of child pornography images and videos on his home computers. He faces up to 10 years in prison.

Why not fight the charges? TSA critics have long charged that agents who confess are let off with a slap on the wrist, and looking at some of these sentences, it's easy to agree with them.

Oh, I know what you're thinking -- this is so unfair. I'm cherrypicking and drawing attention to a few bad apples, to mix my fruit metaphors. But some have argued that the crime rate among TSA agents is higher than the general population, and even higher than a comparable law enforcement agency. (Except that the TSA has no law enforcement authority.)

But these guilty pleas raise a bigger question. Given the well-documented criminal element within the TSA, it kinda makes you wonder -- who needs protection from whom?

Are the jihadists who allegedly want to bring down another plane a greater danger than the agency charged with protecting America's transportation systems?

Think about it. How many crimes again airline passengers have terrorists committed in the last decade?

What's that? None?

TSA agents, on the other hand -- and by their own admission -- have assaulted, stolen, trafficked drugs and downloaded child pornography.

Maybe we don't need to be protected from the terrorists. Maybe we need protection from the TSA.

Robert Frogge': We the... Animals? The Push to Give Fido Constitutional Rights

2012-02-18T00:41:54Z

On February 8, U.S. District Judge Jeffrey Miller dropped his gavel and declared whales are not entitled to constitutional protection against slavery. This ruling came in response to a lawsuit filed last October by five orcas currently being "held in slavery and involuntary servitude" at SeaWorld. The plaintiffs, Tilikum, Katina, Kasatka, Corky and Ulises, apparently feel they "were forcibly taken from their families and natural habitats... held captive... and forced to perform, all for Defendants' profit." Using PETA-sponsored legal representation as their collective blowhole, this pod of orcas demanded to be released to more suitable habitats.

Jeffrey Kerr, general counsel to PETA, argued the 13th Amendment should prohibit slavery against orcas. "Slavery is slavery," he said, "and it does not depend on the species of the slave any more than it depends on gender, race or religion." Kerr attempted to circumnavigate the issue posed by the famous phrase "We the people" by reminding the Court of his client's ability to problem-solve, communicate and form complex communities.

SeaWorld dismissed the lawsuit as a publicity stunt, but I think Kerr and his legal team are deliberately paving the way to all animals having constitutional rights. Kerr states, "for the first time in our nation's history, a federal court heard arguments as to whether living, breathing, feeling beings have rights and can be enslaved simply because they happen to not have been born human." It seems only potted plants are excluded from the scope of Kerr's sweeping statements.

Given PETAs colorful history of publicity stunts, perhaps Kerr's statements are just another attempt to commandeer the media spotlight. But how should similar stances by university academics be regarded? For example,

· Rutgers University law professor, Gary Francione, believes "animals deserve the fundamental right to not be treated as property."

· Michigan State University law professor, David Favre, has proposed "a new legal category called living property as a step toward providing rights for some animals."

· Harvard law professor, Laurence Tribe, has written "the 13th Amendment could legitimately be applied to animals."

I love animals as much as anybody but do not want to live in a country where:

· Omelets have a right to life
· Bacon has the right to vote
· Cats have the right to consider neutering an elective procedure
· Dairy cows have the right to free press
· Pit Bulls have the right of peaceful assembly

Gary Arnold: Step Up to the Microphone, Rosie O'Donnell

2012-02-17T21:52:37Z

The best roles on television for people of short stature are those in which dwarfism takes a back seat. In the new show, Are You There, Chelsea? Mark Povinelli plays Todd, a supporting character on the show who works at a sports bar. I've watched only two episodes, but, compared to portrayals in popular culture that objectify little people because of their physical appearance, Todd appears to be one of the better roles for people of short stature. Like the rest of the cast, Todd is in search of a laugh, a good time and some comfort. He just happens to be a dwarf. He understated presence of dwarfism on Are You There, Chelsea? underscores the irony of Chelsea Handler's Feb. 8 appearance on The Rosie Show. Characters such as Povinelli's and Peter Dinklage's recent honors on the Emmys and Golden Globes have delivered a message that people with dwarfism, while different in physical appearance, have far more similarities with their non-dwarf peers than they do differences. Povenilli, Dinklage and others in popular culture are reflective of what is becoming a more inclusive community, a community that welcomes differences, including dwarfism.

But on the Feb. 8 Rosie Show, Handler and Rosie O'Donnell all but put up a sign that said "little people not welcome." The conversation turned to dwarfism when O'Donnell confessed a fear of little people, a fear that is evidently linked to her grandmother's fear of munchkins in The Wizard of Oz. Many people, including people with dwarfism who watched the interview, might have been able to forgive O'Donnell for her discomfort. After all, there are probably not more than 30,000 people with dwarfism in the United States. Most people don't personally know a dwarf. The unfamiliar breeds discomfort. We can't help that. It's a part of human nature.

But what happened after O'Donnell's confession was unacceptable and hard to forgive. I expected her to address her fears as an opportunity to bridge the gap between her own misunderstanding of dwarfism and the reality of what life is like for people with dwarfism. Rather than erase any distance, O'Donnell reinforced the gap. After Rosie's confession, she and Handler engaged in a conversation that at best infantilized and at worst dehumanized little people. Handler, who compared dating a little person to child abuse, and wondered aloud how a dwarf could give birth to a baby, certainly wasn't helpful if O'Donnell wanted to make a sincere effort to recognize that dwarfism is secondary to a person's skills, ambitions, passions and personality. But O'Donnell never went beyond treating discomfort with dwarfism any more seriously than she would a fear of clowns, as if it was something quirky, or unique about her. The behavior would have damaging had it come from any talk show host. But from O'Donnell, who claims to be about inclusion, the behavior was unexpected and utterly disappointing. Even later in the conversation, when O'Donnell mentioned Martin Henderson, the victim of a heinous physical assault, and who was singled out simply because he is a dwarf, O'Donnell failed to make a human connection to dwarfism.

Since the Feb. 8 telecast of The Rosie Show, little people around the world have responded. Hundreds of people have reached out to O'Donnell, demanding a public apology and demanding that she dialogue with the dwarfism community in order to address the misinformation.

In response, O'Donnell has apologized on her Twitter feed, directly to reality star Amy Roloff and to others. The Twitter apologies could be a good first step, but she needs to do more. Going forward, she needs to use her platform as a public figure to promote awareness about little people. If she doesn't, thousands of people around the world will no longer think of her as a champion of inclusion. Rather, she will be another second rate comedian who, sensing that she is losing the crowd, resorts to a joke using the m-word.

Janice Harper: The Craziest Sh*t I Learned Working For A Divorce Lawyer

2012-02-17T17:45:28Z

Shortly after my parents separated when I was a teenager, I asked my mom if she and my dad planned to get a divorce. "Oh, no!" she assured me, "that's not necessary." I felt a momentary sense of relief before she added, "We divorced years ago, right after the war."

"The war" was the Second World War, which is to say, back in the forties. Long before I was born.

The startling revelation that my parents had divorced decades prior and that my own birth was somewhat less than legitimate left me rather astounded. I had always assumed that my parents were married, given that they lived together, had four children and called each other husband and wife -- albeit not always in a nice way.

"What do you mean you were divorced in the forties?" I asked, "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, yes, I divorced him alright and he had it coming, let me tell you. We just couldn't agree on anything, not even who would move out of the house. So neither of us did."

I wasn't sure if that answer explained an awful lot, or made their marriage (and divorce) all the more confusing. In the end, I decided to consider it pretty funny.

It turns out, I had no idea how funny divorces could be until I worked for a divorce attorney. As the humorist Jean Kerr once said, no lawyer is every really happy with a friendly divorce. It's like a mortician finishing up the job only to have the corpse sit up on the table. And I happened to be working for a very good attorney, the kind who could sever conjoined twins and make sure his client got the only liver. So as you can imagine, I saw some really unfriendly divorces.

Now, I know that people are never at their best when they put their lives in the hands of an attorney, which as far as I'm concerned is as it should be. Attorneys are, after all, professional troublemakers with shatterproof hearts; at least we hope that to be the case for what they cost us. The last thing anyone needs is a nice attorney. It's like hiring a Canadian hit man. They're bound to end up shaking hands and apologizing for the gun, once it occurs to them how impolite it is to execute a person.

But I discovered fairly quickly that not even Alley McBeal would have had the patience to endure the emotions of her clients had she specialized in what is so wrongly termed, "Family Law." Nothing brings out the underbelly of our souls more perversely than breaking up with someone we once swore 'till death do us part.

There I was, about two days out of college, and happily employed as a legal secretary. My job was to greet the aggrieved, take their calls and type up legal briefs on this amazing new machine called a word processor. I quickly began to learn what divorce does to otherwise sane people once their private lives are turned into public records.

There was the couple who fought -- endlessly and at hundreds of dollars an hour -- over who would get the table lamps and duck decoys. By the time the matter was settled, they could have each purchased their own well-lit hunting lodges for what they paid to squabble over their knick knack duck collection. That was a couple, I concluded, that didn't really want to divorce but once they got started thought they had to see it through.

Then there was the woman who arrived in a state of absolute panic. Her husband had come home with muddy footprints in his underwear and could not explain the grass stains. Turns out he was frolicking with his mistress on the school playground very late one night and the Fruit of his Looms got trampled.

"And now he wants a divorce!" our client wailed, flaying her hands all over the place and blubbering like a toddler. "I can't get a divorce -- I'm Catholic! If he divorces me I'll never go to heaven!" She spent weeks calling frantically, trying to stop the divorce to save her soul, and found little solace in the fact that she had a good attorney and would get the house and then some. "Please don't let him get away with this!" she cried, "I'll do anything to keep him!"

Then one day, she arrived for her appointment looking like an entirely different woman. She was dressed impeccably if not just a touch provocatively, her skin was tanned, her hair cut, styled and lightened and her gnawed off fingernails perfectly manicured and conspicuously missing the wedding ring she'd vowed would get her into heaven. She'd never been so calm or self-assured, as she took a seat with the grace of Audrey Hepburn and the smile of a saucy vamp who'd just done the dirty with the handyman and found his work had met her satisfaction.

"Do you think we can get this divorce settled soon?" she asked, as if making small talk. "I just can't wait for this whole thing to be over," she said half to herself as she admired her shiny nails.

It seems a relative had died and left her loads and loads of money. His relative, to make it even better. So much for an eternity in Hades; she'd found heaven here on earth and there'd be no more dirty underwear hung out to dry in her most comfortable future.

Then there was the client with multiple personalities who was hoping each could get alimony, and the embattled drug dealers who lived in a storybook mansion that looked like something out of a Disneyland exhibit and didn't fight over where they'd live, but whether they'd live and which one got sent to prison. Or the client who was in his seventies and had been married for nearly fifty years but just decided he wanted to die single and was willing to leave his wife alone and broke for the opportunity to do so. Strangely, he was murdered shortly after in a drive-by shooting; who'd have ever seen it coming?

Each client came with a story, a story that spoke of tragedy, comedy and drama in every frantic phone call. For many, divorce stripped them of the camouflage of social pretense and they came to us in all their gory glory -- angry, self righteous, unconcerned about anyone but themselves, and least of all their children.

But for most, divorce had yanked their future out from under them, stripped them of their identities, their homes, their families and their pride. They arrived in our offices traumatized and confused, seeking only peace and finding only combat. With only children, money and material possessions to argue over -- since matters of the heart matter little to the law -- divorce transforms relationships to resources, with battles over duck decoys somehow feeling worth the hatred.

My own parents finally got back together again, once they found a house big enough to house them separately and peacefully, and they lived oddly ever after. And I finally got fired from the divorce attorney's office, when one of the partners caught me playing "Yer Cheatin' Heart" on the Dictaphone equipment (he had issues).

You just never know what might get you tossed out the door, whether it's because of country western music or trampled underwear. And once it happens, there's no telling what's in store. But whatever comes your way, just take a deep breath and remember, the other guy gets the table lamps and decoys. You go for your future.

John Blumenthal: Guess What, Mitt! I Just Un-Baptized You. You're Jewish Now.

2012-02-17T15:37:33Z

Fill me in, Mitt. How exactly do you Mormons baptize someone who's not only dead, but most likely not even in the neighborhood? I assume you get a guy in a white robe to immerse a pretend person in something filled with water. Or, to keep it simple, he might just throw some water on the absent infidel, which basically means he's throwing water on the floor. Maybe he says a few random blessings and performs a few rituals involving candles; maybe he fills out an official-looking form online and logs it into a database. And so on and so forth.

Well, if it's that easy, why can't I do it?

The thing is, I can.

So today, I decided to un-baptize you, Mitt. I know you're not dead yet, even though the RNC and your campaign staff may think you are.

But so what if you're not technically deceased? So what if I bent the rules a little? That's the beautiful thing about religion -- you can make it up as you go along, kind of like when you said you've always been severely conservative, whatever that means. Maybe you meant severely constipated.

Since Mormon baptism involves water, Jewish un-baptism principally involves sponges and paper towels. So I went ahead and did it without your ... um...blessing. You didn't miss much -- it was kind of a dull, meaningless ritual, not unlike the primary debates. I made up some prayers, chanted some gibberish, lit a few candles that I had left over from last Hanukkah and drank some Mogen David wine because I was out of tequila. To make it official, I Photoshopped a parchment-like document, put your full name -- Willard Mitt Romney -- on the dotted line, and -- presto chango! -- you've been un-baptized.

Which means you're Jewish now, Mitt. Mazel Tov! Welcome to the tribe. L'Chaim!

In case you want to know, your new name is Morris Berkowitz and you're from Queens. You're an adult, but your mother still tells you to always take a sweater. Your mother-in-law lives in Florida. Her name is Bea. She doesn't like you because you're not a doctor. (She voted for Ron Paul because he is a doctor.) Your Bar Mitzvah reception was held at a Chinese restaurant in Flushing Meadows and you received four alarm clocks and six copies of The History of the Jewish People.

Here's some good news, Mitt. Being Jewish will open up a whole new world for you, especially on the debate stage. For example, now you can change your whole political vocabulary. When you lose the next primary, you can kvetch (complain.) When Santorum says something really stupid, you can say he's meshuganah (crazy.) And let's face it, that cockamamie alter kocker (ridiculous, crabby old guy) Rand Paul is nothing but a nudnik (a pest.) As for that gonif (thief) Gingrich, he makes you brech (gag or vomit.)

Nobody will know what you're talking about, but nobody knows what you're talking about now, so what's the difference?

Of course, one of the downsides is that your exclusive country club will probably not renew your membership, although they'll say it's about something else.

But never mind that. The big question is this: Will you be requiring a... um... bris?

Abigail Washburn: An American Folk Music Expert Talks On She Lives For China

2012-02-17T13:54:56Z

Inspired by one professor's infectious enthusiasm for Emily Dickinson, Obsessed is a new HuffPost Culture series exploring the idiosyncratic, all-consuming passions of public figures and unknowns alike. Through a mix of blogs and interviews, these pieces will highlight the elusiveness of whatever it is you just can't live without -- whether it's blue jays, Renaissance fairs, fan fiction, or in the case of David Lynch, coffee. If you have an obsession to share, drop us a line at culture@huffingtonpost.com.

The sign was tacked to a bulletin board in a dank & narrow path leading to the university cafeteria. "Study Chinese in China!"

Fast forward four months, midsummer, and I'm sweating profusely on a July day in Shanghai waiting for the monsoon to make puddles into lakes. My nose is filled with coal-drenched snot and I'm watching hordes of Chinese on bicycles navigate suffocating populations. I couldn't speak Chinese and I was traveling in a group of "wide-eyed, big-nosed foreigners." My interaction with the Chinese people could be broken into two categories: 1) they aggressively try to sell me stuff 2) they practice their English on me. Let's just say I didn't like either of these options. I hated the way China made me feel unwanted, like a resource for exploitation.

Back in my suburban Minnesota home, my disenchantment with a nation of 1.3 billion people became increasingly unattractive. Like a virus I couldn't shake, Gandhi's words burned thru me, "Be the change you want to see in the world." I knew that what I did NOT want the world to be like was that of a consumer-riddled American requiring all intake to be tailored to particular needs for pleasure and assurance. Six months later I'm back in China, the air burning my lungs. I pick up a smoking habit out of loneliness. Standing out front of the foreign student dorm, I see an old lady with cataracts running after a tow-headed little kid. I watch and smile and she invites me to dinner.

Old Lady Wang fed me dumplings and read me poetry. One late afternoon in her cold socialist block retirement apartment she read of plum blossoms and talked of how the scent reminds her of the earliest spring day when she learned her son died in a Cultural Revolution work camp, and I cried. I gained 30 pounds from her old school Shanghai cooking. I learned enough Chinese for light talk, then more profound interactions.

When I first started playing the banjo and miraculously fell into a record deal in Nashville, TN, there was a period when I didn't go to China. It hurt. Like a pain in my gut... that pain you feel when you know it's time to connect with your parents or your God or your child or your past or your future... and you don't do it.

The first song I ever wrote was in English "Rockabye Dixie", the second was in Chinese "Song of the Traveling Daughter (younuyin)". Now it's eight years and thousands of performances in the US and China later. I reside in a new colony for the Chinese-singing banjo player, with a population of one. At least I have something I have to do with my life.

In December 2011, Abigail Washburn returned from leading the Silk Road Tour, a state-commissioned bluegrass tour through China. This year, she will speak at the TED conferences in Long Beach, Calif. as a fellow.

LISTEN to Washburn's first original song, "Rockabye Dixie":

WATCH Washburn play the second song she ever wrote, the Chinese-language "Song Of The Traveling Daughter (younuyin)":

Abigail Washburn: "Song of the Travelling Daughter" from The Banjo Project on Vimeo.

Wray Herbert: The Physiology Of Willpower: Where Does Discipline Come From?

2012-02-17T13:40:24Z

Willpower is the key to much that's good in life. Willpower is what makes us save for the future rather than splurge now. It helps us to keep our heads down, studying and working when we really don't feel like it, to earn that degree or promotion. Willpower allows us to say no to that tempting cigarette, extra dessert, or second glass of whiskey -- and to hop on the treadmill. And, of course, failures of self-control can sabotage all those goals.

So it's no wonder that psychological scientists have been studying willpower for decades, trying to figure out who is disciplined under what circumstances -- and why. What exactly is going on in the mind's cognitive machinery -- and the brain's neurons -- when we successfully summon our will -- or when we say, oh the hell with it?

One of the reigning theories of willpower is what's called the energy model of self-control. According to this model, the brain is like a muscle, with a limited supply of strength, which can be depleted through exertion. Nobody is disciplined all the time; we all have lapses. And according to the energy model, these lapses occur when one act of self-control weakens our resolve, leaving us "fatigued" as we face another challenge. Many studies have demonstrated that an act of mental exertion can compromise subsequent acts of discipline. What's more, proponents of this theory have reported evidence that the brain -- again like a muscle -- is fueled primarily by simple carbohydrates, like sugar, and that depleted willpower can be replenished simply by refueling.

This model of self-control has been tremendously influential, but not all scientists are convinced it's the whole story. Northwestern University's Daniel Molden is among the skeptics. He and a team of colleagues have been using new laboratory methods and novel experimental designs to reexamine the role of carbohydrate metabolism in self-discipline -- and to offer a competing theory of how willpower plays out in the brain.

The scientists question several aspects of the energy model, beginning with the fundamental assertion that acts of self-control lower blood glucose levels. They suspected that this important finding might be the result of using imprecise blood glucose monitors, so they reran the basic experiment using state-of-the-art laboratory measures. They recruited volunteers, who fasted and rested before having their baseline blood glucose level measured. Some of the volunteers then completed a vigilance task requiring high self-control, while others did a task requiring little mental discipline. Afterward, all the volunteers gave blood samples for further analysis, and also performed another self-control challenge.

The results were intriguing. Volunteers who initially completed the mentally challenging task were in fact less persistent on the subsequent task. This is consistent with earlier work supporting the energy model. But -- the more important finding -- these volunteers did not show a drop in blood glucose, indicating that the act of willpower did not lead to increased carbohydrate metabolism, as the model predicts. Nor does it appear that low blood sugar can explain the subsequent lapse in mental power.

The energy model also predicts that consuming sugar will refuel self-control, by reversing the depletion of mental resources needed for discipline. Molden and colleagues reexamined this core idea in an imaginative way: As before, some of the volunteers performed a mentally depleting self-control task, and others did not. Then, some rinsed their mouths out with a solution of water and table sugar, spitting it out as they would with any mouthwash. Others rinsed with a solution that was sweetened with Equal, so it seemed just like a sugary drink but contained no fuel. Immediately after rinsing, all the volunteers attempted a second task requiring persistence and self-control.

The results again challenged the energy model. As reported in a forthcoming issue of the journal Psychological Science, those who rinsed with the artificially sweetened drink were much less persistent -- consistent with the idea that self-control is mentally depleting. However, rinsing with the sugary solution appeared to restore the volunteers' lost willpower -- significantly more than rinsing with the artificially sweetened drink. The rinse is crucial here, and a departure from the original lab work: In the earlier experiments that led to the energy model, the volunteers had to actually ingest the sugar to get mentally replenished. But this study showed that merely rinsing with the sugary mouthwash had the same effect, restoring self-discipline. What's more, it had this effect immediately. The experiment allowed no time to metabolize the sugar and make it into brain fuel.

So what's happening here? If mental exertion is not depleting blood sugar, but is compromising subsequent self-discipline, then what's the mechanism? And what's restoring self-control, if not metabolized carbs? The scientists believe the mechanism is motivation. They believe that the mouth "senses" the carbohydrates in the mouthwash, and this sensation signals -- likely through the brain's dopamine system -- the possibility that a reward is coming. Sensing that an energy boost is coming, the brain is motivated to put in extra effort. In short, the sugar motivates -- rather than fuels -- willpower.

The scientists ran two different versions of the rinsing experiment. One demonstrated the effect of the mouthwash on physical persistence; the other on cognitive persistence. But one important question remained unanswered: Is it possible that even rinsing one's mouth with sugar might boost blood glucose -- drawing out the body's supplies? If so, this would revise -- but support -- the energy model of self-control. To address this, the scientists directly tested the effect of carbohydrate rinsing on blood glucose levels. They had a group of volunteers rinse repeatedly with a carbohydrate solution that was much stronger than the usual rinse -- to make the standard of proof as rigorous as possible. Others drank the same concentrated solution. The results gave further support to the new motivational model of self-control. Blood glucose levels jumped in those who drank the sugary drink, but didn't budge for those who rinsed.

All this may sound like inside-the-laboratory hair splitting, but it's not. Understanding the nitty-gritty of how willpower works has wide-ranging social implications. If sugar and metabolism do play an important role in boosting self-control, educators would want to think about the kinds of cafeteria foods that might optimize discipline, productivity and learning in the classroom. And how should society deal with metabolic deficiencies, if in fact they pose greater challenges, for some, to success and well-being? Or alternatively, if lack of self-control is really a lack of motivation, rather than energy or ability, and motivation can be restored with something as simple as a mouthwash, this opens all sorts of possibilities for novel interventions in the future.

For more by Wray Herbert, click here.

For more on emotional intelligence, click here.

Chris Rodda: Yes, There Is a Base in Afghanistan Named "Aryan," and It Is Spelled "Aryan"

2012-02-17T13:34:49Z

When it came to light earlier this week that our military has a base named "Aryan" in Afghanistan, the DoD was quick to come up with excuses to explain it away. They claimed that it was the Afghan National Army, and not our military, who named the base; that it was spelled Arian, not Aryan; and that Arian is just a variation of Ariana, the ancient name of the region that includes Afghanistan.

Wait a minute! The same military that just last week was excusing the use of the Nazi SS flag by our Marines by saying they were too historically ignorant to know it was a Nazi flag are now saying that our military members are such a bunch of history whizzes that it would be general knowledge among them that Ariana was the ancient Greek name for Afghanistan?

Well, despite the DoD's insistence that the base is named "Arian" with an "i," it's not. It is absolutely named "Aryan" with a "y," a name that had already raised concerns among some, but those concerns were just joked about and ultimately ignored.

The DoD's attempt to explain this offensive name away as a just spelling error might have worked if the only instance of it being spelled "Aryan" was just the one Army unit that referred to the base as "Combat Outpost Aryan" back in June, the only example anyone writing about this earlier this week, had. See Tuesday's HuffPost article, "Afghanistan Base 'Aryan' Raises Objections From Soldiers Over Name."

All other news outlets reporting on this story also had only the one example cited in the HuffPost article, but the Military Religious Freedom Foundation (MRFF), which first exposed COP Aryan after being contacted about it by members of both the U.S. military and the Afghan National Army who want the base's name changed, has since located a number of other examples of Army units calling the base Aryan, and also obtained official DoD documents that list the base's name as "Aryan."

The example used by HuffPost and others when this story was first reported on Tuesday has since been scrubbed from the Army's 170th Infantry Brigade website, but here is a screenshot of the photo and caption that were on that page.

But, as I said, this was not the only example. Here are some others.

From a January 2012 newsletter of the Army's 18th Engineer Brigade, saying that an NCO from a unit currently deployed to FOB Sharana in Eastern Afghanistan was being sent to Combat Outpost Aryan:

From a December 18, 2011 photo album on the 82nd Combat Aviation Brigade's Facebook page:

And, finally, this is from a DoD contract document obtained by MRFF. This document, a modification to a freight container contract, shows containers going to FOB Aryan:

MRFF has also obtained emails showing that an employee of the United States Transportation Command (USTRANSCOM) alerted their chain of command months ago to this base being named Aryan, asking if a different name could be designated for the base and requesting to be provided with an explanation for the choice of the name. This request was ignored. So, unlike the claims that the military didn't know that our Marine sniper scouts were using a Nazi SS flag, officials at USTRANSCOM were absolutely aware that a base in Afghanistan had been named Aryan, and we have proof of this.

Among the twenty-one U.S. service members who contacted the Military Religious Freedom Foundation about the name of this base, two have been there and verified that the base is, in fact, named Aryan. MRFF has also been contacted by ten members of the Afghan National Army who want the name changed. Now why, if the DoD's claim that the name Arian (however it's spelled) is just the ancient name of Afghanistan, would members of the Afghan National Army have a problem with it? Well, maybe because of incidents like the following.

Some of our American troops at this base started joking that Afghanistan was now an "Aryan nation" because it has a base named Aryan. The Afghan soldiers realized that our troops were taunting them, which started a shoving match that almost erupted into a fist fight, but was broken up after the first punch, which missed, was thrown.

As for the DoD's claim that this is an Afghan base and was named by the Afghans, that's just impossible to believe. Whether it's called a Forward Operating Base (FOB) or a Combat Outpost (COP), Americans are still running the show at these bases. The base named Aryan being referred to in some places as an FOB and some places as a COP doesn't mean anything. A COP is just a smaller, more remote base than an FOB. Even our troops who are over in Afghanistan sometimes seem to be unsure if a particular base is considered an FOB or a COP. On one discussion board where the difference between an FOB and a COP was being discussed, the best way one service member could come up with to tell the difference was that if you had to cook your own food you were at a COP and if someone else was cooking your food you were at an FOB.

With the exception of some FOBs and COPs being named for their locations, and a handful named by other non-Afghan forces in charge of a base, (i.e. FOB Edinburgh was named by the British), the names of these bases were clearly chosen by Americans. Some are named for service members killed near the location of the base, and others are named with what are clearly American words. Unless you're going to believe that the Afghans are naming bases with names like "Michigan," "Eagle," and "Lonestar," the DoD's excuse that the Afghans named COP Aryan is just ridiculous.

The name of this base needs to be changed immediately, and the military needs to initiate an investigation to find out who decided to name the base Aryan and who approved this name.

Paul Cuadros: Female "Lucha Libre" Wrestlers Fight for a Dream in North Carolina

2012-02-17T12:25:36Z

It seemed impossible, thought La Aguila Dorada, as she looked up to see the towering figure of La Amazona in the ring. The people cheered as the two female Luchadoras faced each other. "Que terible!" La Amazona stood more than seven feet tall, legs as thick as trees, arms as strong as iron pipes, a face hidden behind a hideous black mask. But it was the eyes that struck fear into the heart of La Aguila Dorada: terrible red globes of death stared out at her.

La Aguila Dorada shook off her fear and lunged at the giant. "Para mi gente! For my people!"

More than 500 spectators cheered the little "Golden Eagle" on as she launched herself against her opponent in Durham, N.C., in January. They were witnessing the final conflict between 10 luchadora women competing in traditional Mexican Lucha Libre wrestling. But these women were fighting for more than just cheers.

Members of the North Carolina Dream Team are used to taking on fearsome foes, whether demonstrating for the DREAM Act, the federal legislation that would allow students without papers to attend college and get legal, or organizing campaigns to keep undocumented youth from being deported. Now female members are donning masks to get in the ring and literally grapple with their opponents to help raise support for their cause.

"I think people's minds have been opened more," says Victoria Bouloubasis, a member of the NC Dream Team and a luchadora herself. "A lot of people care but they have never been politically aware or engaged."

The Luchadoras events are the brainchild of King Kenney, a Durham-based events promoter who came up with the idea as a means to raise funds for local food programs for the poor. Kenney knew Bouloubasis along with other Dream Team members and asked them to help. The first two Luchadoras events have sold out at Durham's Motorco Music Hall. A third match is planned for Feb. 25th.

The entertaining events have caught on in a big way, but more importantly, they've been another way for young Latino activists to get their message out about the Dream Act. Spectators stay and begin to ask questions about the movement. "People have this idea in their head of what an undocumented person looks like and then they meet someone and it shocks them," Bouloubasis says.

Even though La Aguila Dorada fights behind a mask, she is up front about her undocumented status. She asked not to reveal her secret identity. This is traditional as many Mexican luchadoras often keep their true identities hidden.

"We fight for the undocumented youth," La Aguila Dorada says. "I'm out. I'm undocumented. I have to drop the fear. I have to drop the shame," she says without hesitation. "It's a revolutionary thought to say you're undocumented, but once you do it you have the power and that revolutionary thought starts to spread."

La Aguila Dorada was born in Mexico, and brought to the U.S. as a young child. She grew up in Texas and graduated from college there. But she became actively involved in the fight to pass the Dream Ac when she moved to North Carolina.

"People become heroes in Lucha Libre and they help people," says Areli Barrera de Grodski one of the Luchadoras at the event. "I would like to think I am representing something than just wrestling."

Barrera was born in Tijuana, moved to the U.S. with her family as a young child and later obtained legal status with a lot of effort and money. She thinks this form of political theatre is empowering to the community and the movement.

"Lucha Libre started off as being entertainment but it has a lot of metaphors in it of good versus evil--but the struggle is universal," she says.

The Luchadoras say there is tremendous power donning the masks and assuming a new identity.

For Latino youth, identity is a big issue because so many feel at odds in a country where they feel alienated. Wearing a mask and being a fighter for the people allows them to fully express themselves when they step into the ring.

"You get that adrenaline rush, you're like, "Oh my God!' you're under a mask, you have another story, you're completely liberated and you can go crazy," says La Aguila Dorada.

Loca--going crazy--is what La Aguila Dorada did in the ring against La Amazona.
Luchadoras 3 is set for Feb. 25th at Durham's Motorco Music Hall from noon--3 p.m. It will benefit the NC Dream Team. (http://www.ncdreamteam.org) and Inter-Faith Food Shuttle, an organization committed ending hunger in communities. You can watch video here from Brandon Hoe.

Hanne Blank: The Surprisingly Short History Of Heterosexuality

2012-02-17T11:03:14Z

Since I began to tell people that I was working on the project that ultimately became my new book, Straight: The Surprisingly Short History of Heterosexuality [Beacon Press, $26.95], I've been getting two major, fascinating reactions to it.

One is straightforward disbelief. How on earth, I have been asked more than once, could I consider writing a history of something that has demonstrably always existed, world without end, "male and female created He them," amen? What sort of history could there possibly be to write?

This is, conveniently, also a reasonably straightforward question to answer. Just asking someone to define "heterosexual" is usually enough to illuminate the fact that it's far from a simplistic matter of the fact that males and females exist in the world and are capable of reproducing sexually. All the other things that come up, from love and sexual desire to religion, marriage, and even ticking off the "married, filing jointly" box on one's tax form make it pretty clear that there are definitely parts of what "heterosexual" is that must have some kind of background, some kind of story, some sort of connection to history. Too, people are usually ready to acknowledge that the word "heterosexual" had to come from somewhere, and that this also constitutes a bit of history.

It seems to me that people come to acknowledge that heterosexuality can have a history in much the same way that they come to acknowledge that food can have a history. People have always, obviously, eaten food. But they haven't always eaten the same things in the same ways, or prepared them identically, or ascribed the same meanings to the food they eat. Heterosexuality -- or at least relationships between men and women, which is not entirely the same thing -- is not so different.

The other reaction I get is more complicated, and harder to respond to. Many people, particularly among my queer and feminist friends, have expressed the view that working on the history of heterosexuality is redundant, and possibly a sort of Uncle Tom-ish betrayal. Haven't heterosexuals got enough of a share of our culture's bandwidth already? Does heterosexuality really deserve to have political progressives like me spending time and effort, energy and intellect, to boost its signal?

On the surface, this seems like a very good question. And yet the history of heterosexuality itself reveals, at a stroke, the ways in which any honest history tends to undermine and complicate the structures of power and privilege.

Heterosexuality does, yes, broadcast its priorities far and wide, in our culture, with top billing and extreme prejudice. But it is notoriously, even ludicrously, bad at self-reflection and self-analysis. I've noted many times that it isn't the straight people who've managed to actually get a purchase on the history of heterosexuality. It's the queers -- Michel Foucault and Jonathan Ned Katz, to name the two most visible and important of the heterosexuality scholars who made it possible for me to even consider writing this book -- who've taken on the task of revealing what makes heterosexuality tick.

It's not a simple task, after all. All of us, queer and not queer, are born and bred, enculturated and explicitly educated to see heterosexuality as being not just normal, but Just The Way Things Are. It often seems to take a queer perspective, and queer outsiderness, to get any purchase on the idea that this might not be entirely true, and that perhaps, heterosexuality is instead One Of Many Ways That Things Might Be.

The fact of the matter is that as much as we might want to believe that we ought not lend our attention to the enormous sociocultural juggernaut that is heterosexuality on the grounds that paying attention to it only gives it more energy with which to thrive, none of us live our lives outside of the heterosexual matrix. Even if we despise the heteronormative hegemony, even if we fight the heterosexism of the patriarchy we live in with every waking thought, the fact remains that the less we know about it, the less effective our resistance can be. As much as I dislike thinking of heterosexuality as "the enemy" -- it's not, it's just an idea we use to think with -- we still need to know our enemies. Just as we need to know our friends. Just as we need, quite frankly, to know ourselves.

Each and every one of us, no matter what our own sexual orientation may be or how we may identify, has had to forge that sexual orientation or identity in the long shadow of heterosexuality. It influences every one of us, in every part of our lives. It shapes who we are and how we think. It influences how everyone we talk to thinks. And this ultimately is why it's a worthwhile project to know how it got that power, that reach, and that capacity to determine the shape of our culture and our lives.

It's also why studying the history of heterosexuality is, inevitably, not a thing that lends force and credence to that huge cultural presence, but rather takes it apart, looks at the pieces, and pronounces many of them curiously arbitrary and rather strange. Just like looking at the history of food makes us ask questions about why, for instance, we eat rabbit but not rat, why we make associations between moral virtue and the green astringency of kale but not the sweet purity of sugar, looking at the history of heterosexuality makes us wonder similar things about our attitudes concerning who desires and loves and has sex with whom, and in what permutations of biological sex.

I do understand the fear that having scholars and writers look too long and hard at the history of heterosexuality might seem to lend credence to its claims of superiority. Yet having been through the process of taking that long hard look -- and written a book that will take anyone else who cares to join me on the same journey -- I can only say that it is an experience that can only end up exposing both heterosexuality's forest and its trees.

Beginning with the very foundations, merely in asserting that heterosexuality has a history and explaining how that's possible, a look at the history of heterosexuality confirms nothing so much as the radical notion that human experience is no monolith, and that even the most weighty and powerful of our cultural institutions is only as inevitable, and only as eternal, as any of its myriad individual parts.